The Boy hated when she answered correctly.
He spun the wheelchair slightly.
“Fine.”
The Mother handed him her phone.
The message was text.
Not voice.
I’m in town. I know I don’t get to show up and expect anything. I was wrong to leave. I was wrong to watch from across the road instead of asking if you wanted me there. If you want answers, I’ll answer. If you don’t want to see me, I will respect that. I’m staying nearby for now.
The Boy read it twice.
Then handed the phone back.
“Well?”
His Mother asked gently.
“I don’t know.”
She nodded.
The Boy looked toward his window.
“Did he say he was sorry?”
“Yes.”
“Not really.”
The Mother reread.
The Boy continued.
“He said he was wrong.”
“That is close.”
“It isn’t the same.”
“No.”
The Mother sat on the edge of his bed.
“What would you want him to apologize for?”
The Boy stared.
“Leaving.”
“What else?”
“Not calling.”
She waited.
“Missing my birthday.”
Another.
“Making me think he couldn’t stand looking at me.”
The Mother’s face changed.
The Boy noticed.
“What?”
“Nothing.”
“No.”
He leaned forward.
“What?”
She hesitated.
Then answered carefully.
“He never couldn’t stand looking at you.”
“Then why did he leave?”
“That is his answer to give.”
The Boy became angry.
“You know.”
“I know what he told me.”
“Which is?”
“That after the accident, every time he looked at you, he blamed himself.”
The Boy stared.
“What?”
The Mother continued.
“He believed staying made things worse.”
“That’s stupid.”
“Yes.”
The Mother said it immediately.
The Boy looked surprised.
She continued.
“It was also real to him.”
“But he left me.”
“Yes.”
“You keep making excuses.”
“No.”
Her voice remained gentle.
“Explaining why somebody did something does not make the thing acceptable.”
The Boy looked down.
His hands rested on his thighs.
“He thought the crash was his fault?”
“Yes.”
“It wasn’t.”
“I know.”
“Police said it wasn’t.”
“I know.”
“Why didn’t anyone tell me?”
The Mother looked sad.
“Because we thought his guilt was his problem to solve.”
The Boy’s eyes watered.
“And he made it mine anyway.”
The Mother moved closer.
“Yes.”
The Boy wiped his face angrily.
“I hate this.”
“I know.”
The next Saturday, the Boy returned to the clubhouse.
He wanted another ride.
The sidecar had become his favorite thing in the world.
The club had already added a small weather shield after he complained about insects.
The Older Biker called it version two.
The Boy called it overprotective.
They argued.
The Boy won one adjustment.
Lost three others.
Before the ride, he asked:
“You talked to him.”
The Older Biker did not pretend.
“Yes.”
“Why?”
“Because I wanted to.”